Helping Hand
by tsukimeushi
Summary: Sniper and Spy share a moment during a lull in the fighting.  Rated T for language and Spy being French.


He wants to kiss him.

Christ but he wants to kiss him.

It was some time around noon, going by the shadows, or lack thereof. The hot air was surprisingly quiet, for the moment—they had managed to secure this Point and, judging by the silence, the REDs had executed a speedy tactical retreat to regroup and plan their next defense.

The BLU Sniper had stepped out into the sun to take advantage of the temporary peace. He glanced at his watch—yeah, noonish. His gun and hat are inside, left up on the crates he's been using as makeshift chairs and foot and arm rests. He leaned against the sun-bleached wooden planks of the wall, head tilted back and eyes closed, loving the feel of the sun on his face, trying to burn through his eyelids. He reached into a vest pocket and pulled out his second pack of the day, blindly pried into it and drew out a cigarette. One hand put it in his mouth as the other pat at his other pockets, looking for—aw, piss. Sniper opened his eyes and looked down, and performed another inspection of his pockets in case the little book of matches had evaded his questing fingers. Nothing. His head fell back again, colliding with the wood with a dull _thunk_. He must have left it upstairs on one of the crates. Shit. He's _not_ going to climb all the way back up those stairs and then all the way back down here again. Probably wouldn't be enough time anyway, he grumbled to himself, before it was time to push forward.

He suddenly hears something to his left—the familiar sound of a cloaking device being deactivated. He turns his head and there's the BLU Spy, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, regarding Sniper with mild curiosity. Sniper stares back. It's a game they play, sometimes, Sniper's noticed—seeing who would speak first, when they chance to encounter each other on the battlefield.

He's about to give in and let Spy win this particular round when the Frenchman steps closer and inclines his head, slightly. Sniper takes the cue, pushing off the wall and leaning down, touching the end of his unlit cigarette to the glowing end of Spy's. A few puffs of smoke plume up between their faces, and Sniper pulls back a fraction, satisfied.

"Thanks, mate," he says, softly.

"_Je t'en prie, mon faucon_," Spy replies, as he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves.

Sniper leans back against the wall again, glancing at Spy out of the corner of his eye upon hearing the saboteur's use of one of the many little petnames he's come up with for the Australian. Spy's eyes are fixed forward, on something in the distance, but many hours of study and interaction have trained Sniper's already-sharp eyes to watch for the minute changes in features, and he can see that the Frenchman is working to repress the beginnings of a fond smirk.

And God but he wants to kiss him. It was almost ridiculous, how Spy's mere proximity could induce such a fervent desire, and how difficult Sniper always found it to resist the temptation, at least until they were alone. But that was ok, he didn't mind, most of the time anyway. When they were alone he was always rewarded for his patience. And he knew things, knew things about Spy that no one—or a very, very small number of individuals—else did. He knew what a handsome man he was under there, under that mask. He knew that his hair wasn't black, but a very dark shade of brown. He knew that he had a number of old scars all over his body, including one running across the second knuckle of his right hand. And he loves it. He loves that he knows these things, that he knows that that scar is from _of course I am serious, do you think I would make something like that up?__!_ punching through a glass window, years ago, to extract a kitten from a burning building. A very long story, Sniper had been assured.

So he restrains himself, for now. He still craves contact, but he'll try something a little subtler than grabbing his teammate around the waist and shoving his tongue down his throat. He shifts his weight, slightly, onto his left leg. Spy hasn't moved; he's still standing fairly close, with his back to the wall and eyes forward, puffing contemplatively on his brown cigarette. Sniper keeps moving, slowly, twisting his heel just enough so that his left shoulder moves a few more inches and gently brushes against Spy's right shoulder.

A moment passes, and nothing happens. Then, wonderfully, gratifyingly, Sniper feels the slight pressure returned. He doesn't even have to look at his companion to know that he's fighting even harder now to hide the smile threatening to creep onto his face. Sniper doesn't bother concealing his.

A loud shout breaks the silence. A blue blur whizzes past the two men—then another holler, followed by what sounds like a stampede, getting closer and louder until the source breaks into view—Heavy, with Medic right behind. Heavy's bellowing something in Russian at Scout, who's long gone ahead of him. Medic gestures and yells to Sniper and Spy as he and Heavy run past, something about _schnell_ _schnell _and RED and explosions.

Sniper glances over at Spy. The Frenchman returns the look. He raises his hand in a _c'est la vie _gesture as he finally allows the smirk to materialize. A second later and he's gone, the cloak reactivated. Sniper's about to turn to go back inside and up the stairs to retrieve his gun and hat when he's stopped by what feels very much like an invisible hand on his jaw. Another moment later and he feels a familiar pair of lips press against the corner of his mouth. Then—both the hand and lips are gone, and if Sniper strains his ears he can hear the sound of footsteps hurrying away and towards the RED's second Point.

The Australian grins to himself as he heads inside.

* * *

_Author's Note:_ Fucking shit, another one, wtf. Got the idea from a picture I drew, lol. Also Medic is a pretty cool guy, imo. Just throwing that out there.


End file.
